


to be loved

by ninefish



Category: Little Women (2019)
Genre: Character Study, Lesbian Character, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninefish/pseuds/ninefish
Summary: Jo March has resigned herself to a loveless life. Well, “loveless” is a bit harsh. She does have her family.(Jo is a lesbian. All things considered, not much has changed)
Relationships: Friedrich Bhaer/Josephine March, Theodore Laurence & Josephine March
Comments: 15
Kudos: 77
Collections: oh YES





	to be loved

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I haven’t had the chance to read the books yet so apologies for any ooc-ness.   
> I'm not sure why at Laurie's confession scene I really hoped that Jo would straightup be like "I'm gay!!", but here's my take on our favorite tomboy if she had been. Enjoy!

Jo wasn’t sure when the realization hit her.

As a child, she had always attributed her stubbornness to the loud declarations of her destiny as a spinster. But as the pretenses of childhood faded away, she found her utter disenchantment with the coarse feeling of boys’ lips never disappeared.

Instead, she found herself dreaming of faraway cities and nimble fingers brushing away her wisps of hair.

Jo wasn’t sure if she would ever marry for love.

Cutting her hair was freedom. The firm press of a stack of bills in her hand while she sheared away her own chains. The shorter hair too was useful for when she escaped into town, all roughened voice and secretive smiles.

So when Laurie had come to her that day, heart cradled in his nervous, boyish hands, she had gently wrapped her hands around his and pushed it back. She couldn’t do it— couldn’t lead him on in such a cruel way. Because Laurie . . . Laurie, the caring boy next door who held the sun in his eyes and all the storms of summer in his sullen smirk; Laurie, the one who had called out to Amy that snowy day; Laurie, the one who ran in the fields with her; Laurie, of the mailbox and key— 

Laurie would never understand.

Perhaps it had been the tremble in his voice, the shattered sort of shakiness that was a mosaic of the last time a woman, his mother, had left.

But Jo knew that she couldn’t let him live in a world where he believed that they were meant for each other. Because a tiny part of Laurie would always hope, despite his desire for the best for Jo, that she was simply confused.

She wrote the ending of her book the way she did because that was what the people had wanted. A woman must marry, for economics or love, whichever came first. If Jo was being honest with herself, that moment under the umbrella was what she wanted. It would have been so much easier if she had leaped into Frederich’s arms and sealed the happy ending with a kiss.

But, to a degree, Jo had found a happy ending.

Frederich was someone who understood. Jo hadn’t realized it at first, that day in the boarding house when she had stood in front of the fireplace with her words and heart torn to shreds. It had more felt like betrayal.

But Frederich had understood her, perhaps better than anyone ever would. He had understood her from the moment he said he disliked the words she had given, not for herself, but for the impudent masses. He understood her and, to a degree, Jo understood _him_ — furrowed brow and dark eyes as he tried to convey the words jumbling in his mind, English and German.

So that rainy day underneath the umbrella did not happen precisely as Jo wrote it, but when she was wrapped in his arms she felt such fondness and understanding she wondered if perhaps this was love.

When Jo was feeling particularly self-pitying, she resigned herself to a loveless life. She was not free to pursue those she truly found affection for and yet all suffered for it. Especially poor Frederich, who had tied himself to her and she to him. He had never expressed a desire for more, but she couldn’t help but feel that she has repaid him for that day in front of the fire a thousand times over every time she took his hand and knew that it could never _be_ more.

But then she would hear the cries of children outside her room and would feel the ache balmed.

It was not the love of fairytales, of knights and princesses, and all that was good and holy. But Jo was never one for the demanding rules of propriety. She would feel guilt then, for doubting the undeniable love that surrounded her always.

Jo loved Frederich, in her own way. She loved his lilting voice, the way that they could discuss philosophy for hours for Frederich to immediately after ask her to remind him what the English word for “saucepan” was. She loved their hugs and gentle kisses on the cheek, and the way that he has never commented on how she wrinkled her nose at his stubble.

She loved her sisters and mother and father. They were her clan, for whom she would defend with pen and sword until her last breath. It was they who filled her with joy and fulfillment. And if she ever caught eyes with Laurie a moment too long, she merely smiled because it was better this way. In a strange, circuitous way, he had become family long before he ever exchanged vows with Amy. Jo’s heart ached with love when looked at the piano and all it stood for and all who had played upon it.

And, perhaps most of all, Jo loved teaching. The fierce, vindicative joy of defiling Aunt March’s home had faded quickly, but the endless flurries of laughter and groans from the children were everything. Taking books down and reading to them transported Jo back to a simpler, albeit louder, time— when three were four and life was all tangled sheets and whispered secrets. 

Sometimes, when Jo browsed in local bookstores or the corners of bars, she saw what she tried to push down. It was easier she told herself. But she also couldn’t help but wonder what it was to love and be loved in such a way. To have fingers knotted in her short locks and breath on her face.

She doesn’t let herself linger. 

Because as much as she could whine and bemoan the timing that she was born at, she knew that that was not precisely true. Jo loved and was loved. She was so filled to the brim with love that sometimes, in the sitting room while holding Frederich’s, or Meg’s, or mother’s hand, she felt as though she would burst.

Jo March was loved.


End file.
